


The Sand and the Sea

by whatthefoucault



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Food, New York City, clintkate, hawkeye squared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Kate have not talked about that thing that happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's fair to say this one got away from me a little, meaning to write a little one-page thing that snowballed into a few chapters, thanks in no small part to [this very important soundtrack.](https://play.spotify.com/user/samikelsh/playlist/3ryyitUYGF0DB42xLC0PDB)
> 
> This follows the same timeline as [Bring Your Silver Arrows,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6601567) but where that story follows Clint's week, this follows Kate's. Can be read together, but don't need to be.

It should probably have amazed Kate what one can get away with on the New York subway, but as a lifelong New Yorker, nothing amazed her about the subway at all.

“I could have sprung for an Uber,” she said, hauling Clint half-slung over her shoulder, and both their quivers and bows, onto the subway car. Every part of Kate hurt. Parts of her she had previously been unaware of somehow even managed to hurt. “Like, maybe not executive-level, but at least Uber X.”

“It's like 6 stops, Kate,” mumbled Clint, “my rib's bruised, not broken. And I really can’t afford to bring down my rating.”

“You know, it's actually kind of nice riding the subway when you're covered in blood,” Kate mused. “People are actually giving us their seats. That's so nice!”

“I hate when people say New Yorkers are rude,” replied Clint.

“This, right here, is a testament to the human spirit,” said Kate. “Let's get us home, Hawkeye.”

And they sat, in amiable silence, past Lafayette, past Clinton and Washington, past Franklin. Up the stairs they hobbled onto the street, past the bodega and the laundry, and that optician's office that looked like it had been there since the 1930s but barely ever seemed open, and onto the apartment. There were always too many stairs when they came back like this. Kate set Clint down first, as gingerly as she could, onto the sofa. Then she set the weapons down in a ragged heap by the door, greeted Lucky, who bounced and wagged his tail so hard she almost worried it was going to fall off, as though he knew there had been reason to worry that they may not have returned at all. Then she shuffled to the bathroom, kicking her boots off as she went, to fetch the first aid kit before sitting down to assess their respective damage.  
“So are we ever gonna talk about that thing that happened?”

>>\----->

That thing that happened.

The thing in question, not so much a thing at all as a gesture, had happened about a week earlier.

Clint did not want to go to the pool party. Kate was his exit strategy. If it was awful, forty-five minutes in, Kate would feign oncoming headache and Clint, being the responsible plus-one he was, would take her home, thus having done his social duty without having to endure too much awkward, enforced fun. Besides, Kate was looking forward to an opportunity to show off her new swimsuit: it was on the athletic side of fashionable – because form, in this case, was nothing without function – and it showed off her shoulders. Kate liked her shoulders. They were strong. They were shoulders that carried mountains. They were the shoulders of an archer.  
And damned if Tony Stark did not throw a quality shindig, thought Kate. The drinks were good, the company was positively buzzing, and the meze was of the sort of calibre that Kate wondered how many falafels she could get away with stuffing into her purse without being conspicuous. Clint leaned into her as nonchalantly as he could.

“Kate, I don't think that's where food goes,” he whispered.

“Clint, there's nothing in your fridge but marshmallows and milk,” she said, “just... just stick these in the freezer for when we're too beat to order in. These falafels are the business.”

“Yo, Hawkeye!” Tony appeared between the two of them, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “If you're not too busy on babysitting duty, there may be an opportunity to do handsfree Jell-O shots off of Thor's abs. And try the dolmades, they're fierce!”

Kate bristled.

“Babysitting duty? What the hell was that?” she sighed as Tony floated away into the crowd, ready to fake a crippling migraine - or better yet, food poisoning - at any moment.

“Ignore him,” counseled Clint. “Tony's... being Tony. That's just how he shows people he likes them.”

“Fine,” she said, stepping out of her shoes as she lifted her gauzy sundress. “I'm taking a dip. You coming?”

Clint nodded, leaving his shirt and shoes with Kate's by the side of the pool.

“No way,” he said, as they padded carefully into the water. It was by no means warm, but comfortable under the sun. “This is my favourite song.”

It was only then that Kate made a proper effort to listen to the music beyond the swell of jumbled party conversations. Not one she recognised straight away, but the harder she listened, the more it seemed the kind of asinine, swaggering metal that rarely held her interest - something about a gun?

“This is _not_ your favourite song,” she corrected him.

“Okay, okay, not favourite,” he conceded, “but it's Kiss! _Love Gun_!”

“ _Love Gun_ , Clint?” she narrowed her gaze at him. She was near fully immersed in the water now, bouncing softly from one foot to the other. Clint sunk in, slowly kicking circles around her. “Overcompensating machismo, much? They might as well have called it 'Please Touch My Weenie' for all the traction that line's gonna get with the ladies.”

“I don't think that's got the same ring to it,” argued Clint. The sun and the pool threw his softly pink t-shirt tan into relief, and the spray of pale little freckles across his shoulders.  
What a dork.

“I dunno,” she reasoned, “have you ever tried it?”

“Please touch my weenie, Kate,” he said, eyes wide with mock-pleading. His fingertips brushed over her side as he passed; whether or not it was done with any intention, the effect was the same.

“Hmm, nupe,” she grinned, although she would be lying to herself if she said she had never thought about it. “Besides, everybody knows the sexiest weapon is the arrow, not the gun.”

“That so, little birdie?” asked Clint.

“You know as well as I do, Hawkeye,” she teased, closing the gap between them. “With a bow and arrow, you've got the tension, the anticipation, a slow burning build, and finally, release. Straight through the heart.”

“Granted,” he said, almost breathless.

“A gun's not even a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, just one disappointing, premature... bang,” she continued, punctuating the last word by pressing a finger into Clint's chest.

“Dammit Katie,” he whispered, closing his hands around hers, “you win.”

The sun seemed to go out when his lips brushed over hers, almost clumsily. It was no longer the buoyancy of the pool that left her weightless. There was no blaming it on sunstroke or sangria. She loved his stupid face and his t-shirt tan and those damn freckles. She still thought the Kiss song was dumb.

“Shit, damn, oh no,” Clint stammered, floating back a few paces, looking at everything but Kate as he clambered out of the pool. “This is... bad. Can we just forget, I am so, so sorry. I'm gonna... baba ghanoush.”

Kate stared, slack-jawed, as Clint all but ran from the pool.

“You. Futzing. IDIOT,” she said, to no one in particular, gathering her things as quickly as she could. This was bad.

“Jell-O shots, Bishop!” Tony called after her, but she was already out the door.

And that was how Kate found herself, like That One Girl At Every Party, walking home with her Louboutins in one hand and a purse full of falafels in the other, hoping no one had seen the kiss, really hoping no one had seen Clint panic, and praying no one had seen her cry. What a loser.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack also available [here](http://8tracks.com/whatthefoucault/hawkeyes-1) if you're American (which I'm not, so I'm hoping it worked correctly!) with its own lazy cover.

The next day was weird, inasmuch as it was totally normal. Kate came round after breakfast and shoved a ziploc bag full of falafels into Clint's freezer while he slurped coffee out of a cereal bowl.

“There's food in your freezer,” she told him. He nodded. “Ever think about just doing a big shop online and having it delivered?”

“There's literally a bodega around the corner,” he shrugged. He seemed determined not to look at her, as though hoping to deny being wholly complicit in mashing his face into her face the day before.

“I'd never have guessed,” she said, drumming her fingertips over the counter. If he was too embarrassed or too chickenshit to start the conversation, the superior Hawkeye would have to do it herself. “Clint, are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “You?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. Fine. Lucky had wandered over to her, pressing his side into her leg. She was pretty sure it was how dogs gave hugs. “I've actually gotta... okay. I'm just gonna, yeah.”

“You wanna watch a Columbo DVD after target practice tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said, and left.

>>\----->

Carroll Gardens was not one of Kate's regular haunts, but someone's expertly-staged Instagram shot of some food had won her over, and besides, she was grateful for the excuse to spend an afternoon with America.

Okay, an afternoon ranting at America about how Clint was stupid, with a stupid face, except she loved his stupid face, and also some of his friends were stupid, and she had yet to forgive Stark for giving Clint grief for the amount of time he spent, in Stark's words, babysitting.

“I mean, excuse you, right? Come on, America! I'm well into the wilderness of my twenties. Why does everyone have to keep calling me a child?” she protested. “There are fully qualified medical doctors my age. Ok, partially qualified. Probably. There are kids I went to prep school with who now have multiple babies. Like, not even just one wayward teenage pregnancy. Multiple planned babies. I could walk into a bank right now and get a mortgage if I wanted to. I've been a futzing superhero for years. My apartment has its own washer-dryer. How many people can say that about their apartment?”

“Yeah, man,” agreed America. “I feel you. Who the hell starts having babies at your age? I'm not even ready to think about when I'll be ready to think about being ready to have babies. Don't these people have other stuff to do?”

“I mean, if anybody's a baby, it's Clint,” said Kate, violently stabbing her straw into the icy blocks that had formed at the bottom of her frappuccino. “Every time things start to get difficult, or he's going through stuff, he just shuts down. This was different. I mean, it wasn't just hot, it was – okay, it was hot, but more than that. It was good.”

America nodded. This was by no means the first time she had been privy to a Clint-rant.

“And I mean, he's trying to be sort of almost normal, and I guess that's something, but we haven't talked about it, at all,” Kate continued. “We haven't talked about anything. I don't know if it's because he's scared and he doesn't want to hurt me or take advantage or something dumb and selfless like that, or because he doesn't have feelings for me and he wants to get away with not having to turn me down because, again, dumb.”

“Kate, you're a grown-ass woman, and he's a grown-ass man,” replied America. “And I love you, but you're really stubborn and he's got the emotional intelligence of, uhh... you see that dumpster over there beside the pizza place?”

“The one with the two rats fighting over a grease-stained napkin in front of it?” asked Kate.

“Yeah,” said America. “Clint's emotional intelligence is the napkin.”

“Isn't that the place where Beyonce and Jay-Z get pizza?”

“Think so,” replied America. “It's good, but you've gotta wait on line for like 2 hours to get a table on a slow day.”

“There's no way it's that good,” said Kate, rolling her eyes. Typical futzing New York just _loooooooves_ lining up for mediocre food.

“You've just gotta make him talk to you,” said America, “because he's not going to. He probably thinks he's respecting you by not doing anything. Tie him to a chair and play bagpipes at him until he'll talk about it if you have to.”

“I don't play bagpipes,” said Kate, chucking the last of the flavourless frappuccino ice in the nearest trash can.

“Exactly,” said America, with that smile of hers that radiated maximum damage. “Where are you taking us?”

“They just do pies,” Kate grinned. “Like, a bunch of different kinds of pie.”

“Just pies?” replied America. “Kate, you are my queen. If Clint does anything to hurt you - not that I don't know you can look after yourself, but I will murder him. A couple of times.”

“Thanks dude.”

“You got it, princess.”


	3. Chapter 3

Target practice was weird. They shot targets and shot the shit, and Kate tried very hard not to think about Clint's dumb face or the way she wanted to kiss it again, rather than put on some lukewarm show of pretending that thing that happened, never happened.

About fifteen minutes into Columbo, he flinched when their hands touched as they both reached for the last microwaved falafel.

Kate spent a few days alone.

>>\----->

Kate nursed a glass of red the bartender had recommended; his assessment that it was redolent of cocoa-dusted cherries was bang-on. From the end of the bar, she could see just about everything, and – though she suspected Clint might scarcely believe it – she felt no need to whisper a repeating mantra of “act casual, act casual, act casual” in order to, well, act casual.

“Try this,” said a familiar voice over her shoulder, brandishing a small plate. “It's pancakes, stuffed with macaroni and cheese, wrapped in bacon.”

“That sounds disgusting,” she replied. “I'll take twelve.”

Tony Goddamn Stark. Kate should have known better than to actually answer an anonymous text telling her that the fate of the universe hinged upon her showing up at a certain tapas bar in the East Village on a Tuesday afternoon. This was weird.

“You sent the text,” she sighed, grudgingly accepting the cocktail stick offered her. It tasted like a really weird orgasm. She hated how good it was.

“Why, I have no idea what you're talking about. But far be it from me to leave a damsel in distress,” said Tony, helping himself to the vacant seat beside her.

“I'm not in distress,” said Kate. “There's nothing weird about going to a wine and tapas bar alone. I mean, you are too.”

“Not any more,” he smiled. “Okay, I sent the text.”

“Are you flirting with me, Stark?” she asked, doing as little as possible to mask her annoyance. “Shouldn't you be worried that I'm out without my babysitter?”

“Wait, you, what? You realise I meant you're babysitting Barton, right?” Tony asked. “Guy's a damn good archer, but he's kind of a hot mess.”

“Yeah, he's - hey,” she protested. “That's the male Hawkeye you're talking about. Only I'm allowed to say he's a hot mess. Okay, maybe his ex-wife. I guess. If I’m feeling generous.”

“Girlfriend's privilege, I get it,” Tony conceded.

“Whoa, wait, I'm not his girlfriend,” she corrected him. It was not the first time someone had made that mistake, but now it carried with it a sting, a weight, and a sadness.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, ohhh, shit. I'd kind of just figured, based on the way you two were shoving your tongues into each other's mouths at the pool party that – ”

Kate could barely bring herself to let out a squeak. She was fairly sure all the blush in her body had rushed to the surface, and she was verging on the same shade of sanguine as that last sip of Bobal now taunting her from the table. She downed it in a panicked gulp. Tony motioned to the bartender, who dutifully began a new pour. Oh, hell no, she thought. This was bad.

“Tony,” she began carefully, steeling herself, “how many people saw?”

“That I know of? Well, it was Steve going white as a ghost that made me turn around to see what had caught his attention, so I guess that makes two,” said Tony. The bartender set down a pair of wine glasses, one red, one white. “For you, milady.”

“Which one?” asked Kate.

“Correct,” said Tony. “If it's any consolation, Captain America is a gentleman, not a gossip, and what do I stand to gain from this little encounter other than the opportunity to humiliate Clint, which is something that presents itself often enough on any given workday?”

Kate let out the heavy breath she had not realised she was holding. This was a disaster, but not insurmountable.

“To be honest, the reason I texted you was that I was worried after you left the party,” he continued. “Have you tried the baozi? It's filled with compressed cabbage and black garlic.”

“We don't even know each other that well, Tony,” argued Kate, admiring the intricate pleating of the little steamed bun. This day was weird. “Why would you worry about me? Did Clint say something?”

Tony downed the last slug of his drink, silently motioning to the bartender for another. “He locked himself in the bathroom with like five beers,” he said. “Nat had to bust the door in and drove him home.”

“What a dumbass,” she smiled, in spite of herself.

“So what are you to each other, if you don’t mind my asking?” he asked.

“Right now? I... don't know. He's Clint,” she said. She could not find a word for them. He was just Clint. She was no longer sure what that meant.

“Right,” said Tony. “Here's the thing. Communication is the cornerstone of any good relationship. If you're not using your words, what are you saying?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me tell you something about Clint Barton that will completely embarrass him,” he said.

Kate beamed. “Keep talking.”

“There's this look on his face that he gets when your name comes up, or when he mentions your name, which he does a lot,” Tony continued. “It's the kind of look that says, well, in Clint's case it probably says ‘I'm not blushing, you're blushing, shut up,’ but what it means is the guy's clearly smitten.”

“He talks about me a lot?” she asked, unable to suppress a smile.

“That's it, that's the face,” replied Tony.

“Shit,” she squeaked, hiding behind a glass of red.

“I'm not Barton's therapist, and I don't know you that well, but I like you, and I work with him,” Tony continued. “But come on, maybe you guys just need to bang it out.”

“Bang it out?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Bang it out,” he confirmed. “Just get it out there instead of... stewing. If nothing else, it makes him a bigger pain in the ass to work with than usual.”

Just bang it out, she thought, as if it were ever that easy with Clint. But one of them had to make them talk about it, maybe kiss again, okay, maybe bang too. That was definitely not off the menu. Easy, Bishop, she told herself.

“What are you having?” she asked, scutinising Tony's drink.

“Pineapple, kale, and cucumber with a twist of lime,” he shrugged.

“That honestly sounds way more delicious than the wine,” she replied.

“It's all right,” he agreed.

“So do you not,” she asked, searching for a tactful way to ask why she was the only one drinking.

“I do not,” he replied.

“Sooo, you could have just met me at Jamba Juice?” she concluded, gesturing at the wine and general bar-ness of the locale.

“Tapas, Bishop,” he replied, spearing a tiny Scotch quail's egg, dusted in black truffle. “Come on, focus.”

“I've never met someone so into small plates,” she observed.

“I like the variety. How's the Tempranillo?” he asked, topping up her glass. She downed a healthy couple of tablespoons' worth, swished into one cheek, then the other, and rolled it over her tongue. It was savoury and spicy, like downing a shot of aftershave while chewing pipe tobacco, and then chasing it with a good lick of an expensive convertible's all-leather interior.

“Hyper masculine,” she observed, “like if they distilled you into a wine.”

“Why thank you,” he smiled.

“I think I just felt my balls drop,” she continued.

“Steady on, girl.” he raised an eyebrow. “Riesling?”

Kate dutifully took a sip. “I get tons of Granny Smith, some sea buckthorn, and a wisp of elderflower, maybe?”

Tony smiled. “You're good,” he said.

“It's my superpower,” she replied.

“Respect, Ladyhawke.”

“Hawkeye.”

“Respect, Hawkeye.”

“Are we friends now?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he concluded.

“Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: when I'm reading something or watching a show and there's food in a scene, it's where most of my focus goes. So... this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

It should have been a pretty routine dust-up, but those were no garden variety goons. Those goons were jacked, and Kate was pretty sure there was more to this asshole dealer's business than cutting his stock with standard household cleaning products. She looked to Clint, firing off a splodie-arrow and leaping behind the dumpster where she had taken cover.

Shit. That had to hurt.

“You ok?” she shouted, and signed, in case the blast had blown out Clint’s hearing aids as much as it left her ears ringing and muffled.

Clint nodded, but it was clear that his breath was laboured and shallow.

“Okay, okay,” she said, guiding him gingerly back toward the sidewalk. “We did good, Hawkeye. Let's get cleaned up.”

He somehow managed to convince her that he was stable enough to take the subway home. She reminded him to breathe slowly, mindfully stroking his hair with her free hand. No grown man should be allowed to have hair as soft as Clint's, she thought. The inevitable reports to be filed and getting chewed out for probably screwing up some massive long-running investigation by blowing it up would wait until they had at least patched up their cuts and scrapes. She sat down beside him on the sofa, setting the first aid kit on the coffee table.

“Lemme have a look,” she said, and he lifted his shirt without protest. This intimacy was not new to them: it had long become routine after a skirmish or an adventure to go home, clean their wounds, and check for damage. There was something so comforting in the familiarity of his form, the soft freckles and the hint of a t-shirt tan, the occasional scar and the little irregularities that told her what had been broken before.

Kate was glad to know this had not changed.

“How's it look?” he asked, as she ran her fingertips over his ribcage, applying just enough pressure too feel for anything out of the ordinary. Clint winced. The skin beneath her hand was hot, slightly swollen, and tender.

“Yep, that's a bruised rib, all right,” she concluded, and let him roll down his shirt. “Let's get some ice on it.”

“Hey, what about you?” he asked after her, as she padded carefully over to the freezer.

“Just a couple of scratches,” she shrugged, knowing her legs and shoulders would feel the struggle acutely in the morning. “I was lucky.”

“No,” he said, watching her with tired awe, “you were incredible.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but it gave her pause. She pressed the ice pack into his side, and set down a pair of slightly stale, microwaved instant coffees for them. Lucky approached the sofa, turned in a lazy circle, and dropped down into a puppy puddle at their feet. Kate took a deep breath. Okay.

“So are we ever gonna talk about that thing that happened?”

Clint stared at the floor in a way that made her sure he was looking to avoid this conversation indefinitely.

“Dammit, Katie,” he said, scrubbing at the back of his hair in that way he did when he was uncomfortable, which was often, “you know my track record when it comes to relationships, uhh... sucks.”

She wanted to reach out, to run her hand gently along his scruffy jawline, or slap him upside the head for being a dummy, but settled on cradling the chipped coffee cup that warmed her hands instead.

“I think, the thing is... everyone's track record sucks,” she reasoned, “until they find the one relationship that sticks. Everyone has exes and baggage and regrets. But when you do find the one that sticks, you become a team. You work better together than you do on your own, you let them see you when you're vulnerable. You don't shut each other out when things get tough, you get through that crap together. That's the secret.”

“Kate,” Clint started, letting his hands fall to his knees.

“And that's us, isn't it? I'm a superhero, and you're pretty damn good with a bow and arrow,” said Kate, unable to suppress a little smile. “We're both good at what we do on our own, but together? Come on. We're really something. Whether you like it or not, Hawkeye, we're already a team. Okay?”  
Clint stared at the floor.

“What do you want, Clint?” she asked, quietly.

“I don't want to screw this up. I don't want to lose you again, Katie-Kate,” said Clint, letting Kate rest her hands on either side of his face, letting her draw closer, until her forehead rested against his. “And I really want to be with you. Shit. Okay, okay. Okay.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she said, pressing a soft kiss just beneath the band-aid that now obscured half his eyebrow. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

She pulled back slightly, and Clint was smiling, just enough, and it spoke of gratitude. “So... what do we do now?” he asked.

The answer was easy. “I'm going to kiss you again,” she said, “and then we'll go to bed, we'll keep icing the bruised rib, have a really good shower in the morning, and see if there's anywhere that delivers pancakes to your zip code. Deal?”

“Yeah, that works,” he beamed, curling an arm around her waist. “Lead on, Hawkeye.”

“My pleasure, Hawkeye,” she replied, and kissed him. This was good.


End file.
